


The Queen and the Miner

by orphan_account



Series: Ship Amnesty Night [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel and Turgon Are Dead AU, Cousin Incest, F/M, I'll admit I was inspired by a seventh sanctum generator, Idril as Queen of Gondolin AU, One Night Stands, in my head this eventually turns into Idril/Maeglin/Tuor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mother died before they could even leave for Gondolin; when he arrived his uncle had already perished. It seems as if Maeglin and the new Queen of Gondolin, Idril Celebrindal, will have to settle things between themselves - and neither of them are quite sure what to do. Especially when a strange infatuation bears unexpected fruit...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Wish

Maeglin had not thought to leave, at first. When Aredhel had fallen sick, his only thoughts had been of her, no matter what rebellious ideas he had been nurturing before; and Eöl's concern for her almost made him forget his father had been cruel in the past. 

But on the day his mother died, she wrapped her frail fingers around his wrist and drew him close. "Lomion," she breathed. "You must go to Gondolin."

He had shaken his head - no, he wanted to say, you'll get better, we'll go there together some day - but she coughed and spoke again, her voice so soft he could barely hear it.

"This will be your last chance... your father will not want to let you out of his sight, after I am gone - and I will be gone, Lomion." Her hand found his cheek, and he tilted his head into the touch, eyes burning with tears that fought to fall. "I will try to make him understand," she whispered. "Send him in, and go. Find my brother, find your cousin. Be free."

Guilt had never sat heavier in his stomach as when he sent his father into the sick-room and ran to the stable as soon as he was out of sight; his horse whickered nervously at his distress, and he did his best to soothe her before saddling her with shaking hands. The only time he had ridden out of the forest before was with his father, for there seemed to be something about it that kept him and his mother within when they had gone to the edges before - but now it was gone. 

The sunlight burst around him as he left the shelter of the trees; he bent down over his horse's neck, gasping at the pain in his eyes, and urged her to a gallop. His mother's instructions burned in his mind, a shaky map, and he turned his horse a little, for a moment glad that he did not have to look at the strange lands ahead. 

Maeglin felt the moment she parted from life, or something like it. All he knew was that he bent down again, although the night had come with starlight easier on his eyes, and wept - he felt as if something had been lost, a connection he had never been aware of severed. 

He quieted himself soon, though, wiping his tears roughly with his sleeve, and narrowed his eyes towards the distance; even in the dim starlight he could see far, and Aredhel had whispered to him of the path to Gondolin often enough. There, he could see the cliff - like an eagle's broken wing, Aredhel had always described it, although Maeglin had never seen an eagle and thought at the moment of a crow - one of the landmarks she had spoken of. With a half-guilty, half sorrowful glance towards what he was leaving behind him, he urged his horse on; he could get a little farther before resting if he was careful. 

As for Eöl - Aredhel waited until the sun was lowering towards the horizon to tell him of their son's going, and refused to tell him how to find him. 

"He will return, perhaps, when he is ready," she said, her voice little more than a breath as he bent over her. "But for now, he must be... he must be free."

"Gone to another cage," Eöl said, "not free."

Aredhel sighed, and shook her head, and spoke little more until she died.


	2. The Queen

"Who are you?" the guards at the gates called, and Maeglin could see them peering through the slit windows - and the arrows trained on him. He raised his hands to show he had no weapon.   
  
"Lady Aredhel's son," he called out, his voice cracking a little with pain.   
  
"The Lady Aredhel vanished long ago - she is dead."  
  
"Not until some days ago. She lived with my father in Nan Elmoth, and wished to return, but could not. Please let me in!"  
  
It was agony, to think that he might come this far and be denied entry; but after a long time of conference, the gates creaked open. They surrounded his horse; some with the strange light in their eyes that reminded him of his mother, a few without, and in uneasy silence they took him through six gates.   
  
Just inside the last gate, two men stood - lords, Maeglin guessed, due to the way the guards deferred to them and their proud bearing. They went into a nearby building, likely a guardhouse, and Maeglin only caught a glimpse of Gondolin - high white buildings that glittered in the sunlight, bright flags in the clear air - before he was ordered to dismount from his horse and follow them.   
  
Once within, the shorter of the two - bright-eyed, with gold hair bound in complicated braids - indicated a chair on one side of a weathered-looking table. "Sit, please."  
  
Maeglin obeyed, and the golden-haired lord followed suit; his companion, however, remained standing. There was something dark about him - his grim face, the burnt red of his hair - and he looked at Maeglin hard, with eyes that said clearly he did not believe what he had heard. Maeglin quickly looked down, his heart thumping uncomfortably hard against his chest.   
  
"I am Glorfindel, one of the lord of Gondolin," the golden-haired lord said, and Maeglin relaxed a little at the calm tone of his voice. "You say you are Lady Aredhel's son - what is your name?"  
  
"Maeglin," Maeglin answered automatically, and saw the glance exchanged by the two lords. Uncomfortable but wanting most of all to be believed, he went on quickly. "But my mother called me Lómion."  
  
"You know Quenya," Glorfindel said, his tone still carefully noncomittal.   
  
"My mother - Aredhel - taught it to me in secret." Maeglin clenched his hands in his lap, feeling his palms damp with nervous sweat. "Please, might I see my uncle?"  
  
Glorfindel's calm expression shifted for a moment, showing a flash of pity, and Maeglin's blood went cold.  
  
"The king is dead," Glorfindel said, "and has been for some years, although that is not a mark either for or against you, for no knowledge of Gondolin passes to the outside world."  
  
Maeglin bent his head, his throat constricting. The first part of his dream had already been shattered, when he had left his father's house alone and left his mother to her deathbed. Now it seemed the last of it was crumbling away, leaving nothing but a reality that was far more cold and treacherous than any of Aredhel's stories.   
  
"I am sorry we cannot trust you," Glorfindel said, "but times are... difficult. And the Lady Aredhel was quite free of spirit; those who knew her will find it hard to believe that she would have stayed in one place long enough to have a grown son, and only perish a short time ago -"  
  
There was a knock on the door. Maeglin raised his head a little; the tall, grim lord who had not yet spoken went to the door and opened it.   
  
"Lord Rog!" The knocker was a breathless boy who Maeglin judged to be a messenger; he looked rather worried. "The Queen has heard of this, and insists that the newcomer be brought before her at once."  
  
There was tension thick in the room now. "Cannot she be persuaded to let us finish questioning him?" Rog said.   
  
He had the deepest voice Maeglin had ever heard from an elf, putting him in mind of the dwarves and sending a rush of homesickness through him. But above that came shock - a Queen? He had never heard of the Noldor allowing a woman to hold a throne by herself - and relief. Idril, Itarillë, the cousin his mother had told him of. This must be her; she was alive. He could have sobbed.   
  
The messenger shook his head, looking even more nervous. "She said she was displeased she had not been told of it, my lord."  
  
Glorfindel and Rog exchanged a glance above Maeglin's head; after a long moment Glorfindel rose from his chair. "Tell Queen Idril we are on our way," he said, and Maeglin's heart leapt at the further confirmation.   
  
"My cousin," he said, his voice a little choked, and Glorfindel looked at him curiously. He made an effort to clear his throat. "I... tell me, is she well?"  
  
"You will be able to see how the Queen fares for yourself, soon enough," Rog said before Glorfindel had a chance to reply, and that seemed to be the end of the conversation.   
  
  
The great hall where the Queen sat seemed to captured light everywhere; from its mirrored and glittering walls to the bright colors - blue, white, silver - of the tapestries, the whole place was so brilliant Maeglin found himself squinting as if against direct sunlight.   
  
Rog went to the side, to where others sat, and Glorfindel walked by Maeglin's side to the throne, keeping a hand on his arm - a gesture that could be kind or threatening.   
  
"My Queen," he said, in the same careful tone he had used earlier, "I apologize for not immediately informing you of the arrival at the gates, but we did not want to worry you, or give you false hope if it was a spy..."  
  
"Please be silent," a voice - sweet and cold, like the streams of the mountains - replied, and Maeglin strained his eyes against the light to look at the woman seated on the throne.   
  
His breath caught in his chest. For a moment, it seemed the room was empty; there was only him and this glorious being - delicate as a flower, brilliant as a sword, bright as a moonbeam - seated on the throne, and the silence that lay soft between them as her eyes met his. They were blue, like the slices of sky glimpsed through dark leaves on the days his mother and he would ride as close to Nan Elmoth's edges as they could go.   
  
And they were sad.   
  
Before he could grow further lost in his own mind, Idril looked away from him and the spell was - lifted, for the moment, but not broken. He drew breath shallowly, and felt weak at the knees. He was of half a mind to kneel.   
  
"I have told you that I will deal with matters in this city directly," Idril said to Glorfindel, her voice still distant and cold. "Did I tell you to question comers to our gates before bringing them to me, Lord Glorfindel?"  
  
Glorfindel hesitated. "No, my lady," he said finally, his calm tone barely hiding reluctance.   
  
"Do not do it in the future." Idril's eyes turned back to Maeglin, and he swallowed convulsively. "What is your name?"  
  
He had a hard time forcing his voice out. "My mother called me Lómion," he finally said, with a stutter, "but I prefer to go by Maeglin." Glorfindel nudged him in the side. "My lady," he added, a beat too late, and felt his cheeks go slightly red.   
  
Idril looked at him for a moment more in silence; it seemed as if the entire room held its breath. Then, holding the heavy skirts of her gown in one hand, she got up from the throne - Maeglin could not help but notice how she had to slide off, slightly, her feet hitting the floor with a tap, like a child getting off their father's chair. Walking tall and straight, she came down the steps until they were face to face - she stood a step or two above him.   
  
Unsure what to do with so much perfection at close quarters, Maeglin inclined his head. Idril returned the gesture, and finally spoke.   
  
"They say you are the son of Aredhel."  
  
"I am. My lady," he added, more quickly this time.  
  
She reached out and touched his face, her slim fingertips cool against his chin. He started, and to his amazement she lowered her hand with a faint blush tinging her cheeks.  
  
"You have the look of the Noldor about you," she said, a little more quickly than she had spoken before. "And you speak Quenya as if taught to do so by a native speaker." Her face grew more serious. "How did Aredhel die?"  
  
"A sickness, my lady." Maeglin's voice trembled slightly. "A terrible one."  
  
Idril looked into his eyes, and there was sympathy in her gaze. "I know how you feel," she said, softly, all the ice gone from her voice. "Father... did not die quickly, even though he did not perish from an illness. It is a terrible thing."  
  
Glorfindel stirred at Maeglin's side. "My lady -"  
  
"This man is my cousin," she said, her voice ringing out to fill the hall. "Treat him with all honor."  
  
It set off a rustling throughout the hall as those attending began to speak softly to their neighbors. Maeglin folded his arms tightly across his chest, his heart beginning to pound in fear again, and gave Idril another awkward half-bow. "Thank you, my lady."  
  
Glorfindel moved forward a little, apprehension in his eyes. "Id- Queen Idril," he quickly corrected himself, "may I speak with you privately?"  
  
Idril nodded. "Salgant," she said, glancing to her right, "find Maeglin a place to stay for the night - it will come soon. In the morning we will arrange a more permanent residence," she added, looking back at Maeglin.   
  
Her words went slowly into Maeglin's mind and stayed there. Permanent. His father had always said that against Gondolin, that it was a cage his mother had been glad to flee from.   
  
"Come with me, boy," a voice said gently; it was the broadest elf Maeglin had ever seen. He had kind eyes, though, Maeglin thought as he met them - he could see flickers of thought behind them, tinged with the murky blue of pity and the glow of sympathy. "I'm Salgant. I imagine you'll want to get away from these people for a while."  
  
Maeglin nodded, feeling cold with worry, and only dared to glance back once as they left the hall.   
  
Idril was talking to Glorfindel and Rog, her smaller frame tense and straight as she stared both of them down; they both looked worried, and Maeglin saw Rog look in his direction.   
  
The dream that meeting Idril had been was fading again, replaced by hard reality. Crossing his arms more tightly across his chest, Maeglin took a deep breath and tried to think of how he could start to face it.


	3. Chapter 3

The streets of Gondolin were incredible, Maeglin observed, even as most of his mind was lost in worry and insecurity. He had only seen the like in some of the halls of the dwarves, where every nook and cranny was carved or decorated - it seemed everywhere he looked, here, there was a fountain or a statue or simply a section of a building beautifully carved and designed. There was a tendency towards the flowing, he noted, craning his neck to get a better look at some of the high-up carving - his craftsman's instincts beginning to distract him at last from the turmoil of his thoughts. Lines tended to swoop and glide like water, or stylized fire, and there were so many towers... It was as if the city was straining towards the sky.   
  
As he craned his neck back further, fascinated, someone looked over the edge of one of the high balconies and he nearly lost his balance in surprise. Regaining it, he ducked his head - feeling like a child who was noticed staring longingly at something they could not have - and hurried to catch up to Salgant, hoping that the blotching of red on his cheeks would be overlooked in the dim light.   
  
From the way Salgant looked at him, he thought he might have noticed Maeglin's flushing; but he did not comment on it, only beckoning him onward. "My home is only a little way farther," he said, looking down the road ahead of them. "And if you were wondering, that was a guard you saw."  
  
"Oh?" Maeglin darted a glance back, and from this angle could see the figure standing straight and tall on the balcony he'd been gazing at; they held what he guessed was a spear. "There are just guards... around on the streets, or was that place somewhere particularly important?"  
  
"That was someplace rather important - the library," Salgant answered, glancing around himself - unlike Maeglin, he didn't seem to be looking at a particular spot. It struck Maeglin that he was nervous. "But the guards are simply posted around the streets near the Tower, to try and ensure safety. Everyone's been far more careful since... since the king died."  
  
Maeglin bit his lip, and looked sideways at Salgant. After a minute or two, he worked up the courage to ask, "Did you know him?"  
  
Salgant smiled slightly. "Everyone in court knew him - but we were friends, if that's what you're asking. He trusted me... more than I deserve, probably." He glanced up and around again. "We had better hurry, though, and get inside to finish talking. I don't like being overheard, and I'm definitely against the risk of death."  
  
Maeglin held his tongue, then, until they reached a building with a wooden sign on the outside - polished and painted, in beautiful detail, with the picture of a silver harp.   
  
"Not every Lord lives in the main building of the guild they run," Salgant said, noticing Maeglin staring at the sign, "but I enjoy it. Besides, it encourages the members that don't live there to go home at night."  
  
Maeglin stared at him, nonplussed, and Salgant laughed a little this time. "I forget how new you are. I'm not the most popular leader of my House, young one, although an explanation of that will probably wait for another time altogether. But enough talk out here - let's get inside."  
  
_   
  
Idril sat in front of her mirror, feeling her head become progressively lighter as Gwenglad, her maid, unbound braid after braid and removed the ornaments. Her face still tingled from the makeup that had been cleaned off, and looked pink in the mirror. Certainly - yes, that was the only reason her cheeks were pink.   
  
"Is there something on your mind, my lady?" Gwenglad asked, and Idril caught a glimpse of her worried eyes in the mirror.   
  
"Have you heard of the newcomer yet?" Idril asked.   
  
Gwenglad nodded. "Yes, lady."  
  
"What do you think of the matter?"   
  
Gwenglad hesitated, frowning; when she spoke her fingers resumed moving, combing through Idril's hair to loosen it.   
  
"Well, there are people who are saying he looks like the Lady Aredhel, or your father, my lady."  
  
"I did not ask for their opinion, I asked for yours."  
  
"Well, I wasn't there," Gwenglad said, giving Idril's hair a final fluffing, "but I think if you believed him, lady, then his story is probably true."  
  
Idril closed her eyes, giving a low sigh. "There's always a barb in your words."  
  
"My lady?" It was her far-too-innocent tone.   
  
"I'm not blaming you, Gwenglad. It's why I talk to you." Idril opened her eyes again, looking in the mirror; Gwenglad's face was perfectly blank. Her own... was softened and made younger by confusion, the absence of her makeup. "I do not have proof," she said flatly, feeling very tired. "Perhaps if he had brought some token... but Aredhel was never much one for tokens and trinkets. And many of my lords insist that Aredhel would never have stayed in some dark wood and borne a son; that the only reason she would not return is if she had died."  
  
"Lady Idril..." Gwenglad came to her side, holding a nightgown. "If you would ask me for my opinion, then perhaps I might ask you for yours? Why did you call him cousin, then, and speak reluctantly of the Lady Aredhel dying long ago?"  
  
Idril gave a low sigh, lacing her fingers together and staring down at them. It was what her father had used to do while considering a problem, she recalled.   
  
"I only have my feeling to go upon, really," she said at last. "But for many years... for many years, I did not feel that my father's sister was dead. I would stand on the walls and dream that one day I would see her riding home again. But recently... I suddenly lost that hope. I looked out from the walls on the day that my father - on the day he died," she said, firmly, to make up for the brief breaking of her voice, "and I felt as if there were a dark storm on the horizon that I could not see, and that something was coming, but that it would never now be Aredhel that came to the gate."  
  
Gwenglad's eyes became darker, as Idril's had. "I see." There was quiet between them for a minute; the king's death was still a fresh and terrible event in everyone's minds, but nobody more than that of his daughter, and Gwenglad read her moods well.   
  
"He is a stranger to me," Idril said, finally. "Maeglin. There is something about him that speaks of the house of Nolofinwë, but I do not feel a connection."  
  
"You did not even know he existed until now," Gwenglad pointed out. "Even if he is your cousin, it is only to be expected that you wouldn't feel like family right away."  
  
"Hm." Idril's eyes were distant, now; a little brighter than before. "But what I did feel... I felt that he was telling the truth. I could sense no deception within him, no twisting of the mind. So, feelings... it is only upon my feeling that he is staying." She looked up at Gwenglad, her gaze clearing. "They'll be calling me a silly girl by now, and I didn't even tell them half of what I told you."  
  
"You're the Lady of Gondolin, my lady," Gwenglad said loyally. "Let them talk."  
  
"But if people talk, Gwenglad, they are one step closer to doing something."  
  
"Are you one step closer to talking to Maeglin again, then?"   
  
"That might be a good idea," Idril said, although a slight flush touched her cheeks. Quickly, she took the nightgown from Gwenglad and pressed the cool material to her cheek. "I should get to bed for now; I feel a little feverish."  
  
"Of course, my lady."   
  
Idril looked at her with eyebrows raised, but did not comment on the half-hidden emotion behind Gwenglad's words this time.


End file.
